A Voice, A Subtle Thunder
by Saucery
Summary: Sherlock is, perhaps, a cruel master. But one can hardly ask his pets.


Notes: Written for Tahariel, who requested Sherlock/John/Molly, with Sherlock as the master and the other two as his slaves. As a result, this is about as alternate as an alternate universe can get. Be warned, however, that it is very, very dark. There are age differences and consent issues that some readers might find disturbing.

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><p><strong>A VOICE, A SUBTLE THUNDER<strong>

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><p>They're lovely pets, of course, if undisciplined and rather lacking in - shall we say - the finer points of etiquette. But they play so <em>well<em> with each other. And they are, after all, so transparent. So damningly - beautifully - transparent.

It might be a matter of age, as they're both young enough to be driven almost entirely by base passions - or it might be a matter of predilection, as they're both bred from the pens, from the very best stock. Certainly, they're both wonderfully _giving_, once taken beyond those silly notions of wrong and right, of pain and pleasure. Mycroft really does know how to pick them. I'd resented his interference in the affairs of my house, when he'd first gifted them to me, but I can't fault his taste.

Or mine.

"Now, now, John. We can't have that. Molly's enjoying herself a little too much."

The boy pauses - pulls back - and pants, helplessly, his hands clenching and unclenching on Molly's waist. He wants to _mate_, like the little dog he is, to mount and _fuck_, and Molly isn't doing much better. She's on all fours, obscenely wet between her thighs, mewling into the rug. Her collar gleams blackly in the firelight.

"Slowly, now," I say, and settle back against the settee, wine in hand. "Match the clock. Not a jot faster."

And he's in her, again. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. It's _agonizing_, for the both of them, to be so held back, to be so curbed from indulging in their basic natures. Such pretty things. They glisten, slick with young sweat, two gilded serpents twined and arching, John's face pressed to her nape, his hips moving in slow, _careful_ circles, utterly at odds with the desperation writ large in his body, in the knotted muscles of his back, the line of his jaw. He's only sixteen. He very likely thinks that this will kill him.

As for Molly - well, Molly's quiet, as I've taught her to be, as she knows she has to be. I prefer her silence. But her limbs speak, in their trembling, and her breath speaks, in the way it falls out of her at every thrust, _shakes_ out of her, as though John is murdering her, in exquisitely slow increments, and the agony is more than she can take. There are tears at the corners of her eyes. Her fists are wound tight in the rug, pulling at it, wreaking sweet havoc on it in a manner that will surely have Mrs. Hudson complaining, tomorrow.

But John is being patient. _So_ patient.

"Good boy," I murmur, and he gasps - forgets himself for a moment and thrusts _hard_ - and Molly cries out, whimpering, far louder than she ought to be.

Well. _That_ won't do.

"Down," I say, and John _groans_, staring at me in desperation, such terrible desperation. I pat my lap. "Here."

He looks _starved_ - hurt - and, yes, perhaps a little angry with me. The anger suits him; it always does. Perhaps, when he finds out, he'll be artful enough to hide it from me - to make it a little more difficult for me to torment him, to make him flush and _thirst_ like this.

But for now, he's young, and in pain, and needs his master.

"Here, John," I repeat, gently, and he crawls onto my lap and quivers, shuddering all over when I touch him, when I curl my hand around him and stroke him, when I whisper in his ear and bite his - uncollared - throat.

John is my favorite. There's no hiding that. And when he comes, clawing my shoulders and sobbing, I hush him, caress him, praise him and soothe him - all the while watching Molly, abandoned on rug, watching _us_.

She hates this. Loves it. Loves me, because I'm cruel to her, and John, because he's kind.

Perhaps I'll tell her, one day, that the one I am cruelest to is myself - for only now do I satisfy my own hunger, urging John to his knees before me, and taking his wonderful, wonderful mouth.

"You may touch yourself, child," I say, instead, and she closes her eyes and does so - taking her pleasure from herself, as she is forbidden to do with John. Or, for that matter, with myself. The sounds her body makes are slick, glossy, sharp. "Can you hear her, John? How wet she is? How wet you made her?"

John looks up at me and nods - reverent, uncomplaining, no longer angry now that he's come. Such a simple boy. So - _ah_ - uncomplicated.

I smile at him, and then at Molly, who's sunk her fingers into herself, and is fucking herself as hard as John hadn't, as hard as he never will.

"Now," I say, and she comes, silently - oh, precious girl, _obedient_ girl - while I ejaculate into John's throat, his beautiful throat, and reach down to cup his face.

He's glowing. Complete. Filled with his master's pleasure, replete with it.

Mine. Utterly mine.

"John." My voice is rough, when I say his name, and he _shivers_ - his eyes dipping closed as I lean down to kiss him, to taste myself on his bruised, swollen lips.

Molly watches it all - still on all fours, still unmoving. Her shoulders are pale, striped from this morning's punishment, and her hair falls to hide them.

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><p><strong>fin.<strong>  
>Please review!<p> 


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